Sherlock Unlocked
by WhoLockedAndProud
Summary: Small, fluffy moments in the life of two best friends.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Unlocked

(or, The Chinfinite Sides of the World's Only Consulting Detective)

***NOTHING IS MINE**

****NOTHING AT ALL**

*****BUT I DO OWN THEM IN MY MIND**

******NOT IN REAL LIFE THOUGH**

So my friend and I were talking about Sherlock over Facebook chat, and we came up with several variations of Sherlock: sleepy Sherlock, confused in the morning Sherlock, drunk Sherlock… you get the idea. Well, anyway, this is dedicated to Anna and Sophie, my fellow Sherlockians and fanfic writers.

**Sherlock, what's in your mouth?**

"Sherlock, _what is that in your mouth?_"

"Nnnnnum."

"_What?_"

There was a soft smack of tongue, unsticking itself from the colorful wad of the chewy stuff, as Sherlock struggled to reply.

"Gum, Watson. Spearmint, to be precise. Five sticks of it, too. They run out of flavor surprisingly fast. Maybe I should run an experiment to create gum with longer lasting flavor…"

His right cheek was bulging with a giant lump of the pale green sweet, and his voice was oddly contorted, as was his face. He looked like a demented chipmunk, noted John, and he couldn't help but burst out laughing at the sight.

"Sherlock, you should see your _face_!"

John could hardly breathe. Sherlock's brows were drawn, a confused wrinkle atop his nose, and he looked, for all the world, like a child who just _didn't understand what was going on_.

**Sherlock, you need your clothes.**

It was one of those rare nights that Sherlock actually slept in his own bed, instead of drooping over the sofa, or tucked in bed with John. He liked to sleep without clothes on (hey, a Scandal in Belgravia- Sherlock naked, and holding a blanket around himself), and since he was in his own room, he was as bare as the day he was born.

The tall man blinked awake, blinded and disoriented in the bright afternoon sun, streaming in through the window, creating an evil rectangle of light on Sherlock's face. _Wake up, puny mortal- I won't let you sleep- wake up!_ It rang in his sleepy head, cackling madly.

He sure as heck couldn't go back to sleep.

The ex-army medic was preparing his (and Sherlock's) morning cups of tea (well, afternoon for him, morning for Sherlock). John was tired after last night's wild chase through the darkened alleyways of the midnight city, hounding the killer who was behind the several odd deaths this past week. Sherlock hadn't slept for a full six days, instead staying awake on coffee and nothing else, intent on capturing the killer. It was easy forcing the detective into bed, after such a long time going without rest. He could hear a soft shuffling noise behind him, and turned, gazing into the steam wafting up from his tea.

"Ah, Sherlock, nice of you to join me. You slept for sixteen hours, did you know that? You should really sleep more during cases- just a few couple hour naps would-"

He stopped talking, as his eyes landed on a drowsy Sherlock, taking in the sight of the unclothed man in all his naked glory, who was unaware of his current state and was currently rubbing his half-lidded eyes with a fist.

A dressing gown flew across the room and landed neatly over Sherlock's head, covering his torso and his waist, and a pajama-clad John stalked out of the room, speechless and sporting a pair of bright red ears.

Sherlock grinned under the cloth.

**I don't understand, John.**

"-and they call themselves detectives, for goodness sakes! Didn't even notice the blood under the nails or the missing earring in her mouth-so simple- textbook, really."

Sherlock's long fingers, gleaming dully in the orange glow of the fire, pulled at the bow, tugging random notes held sustained in the comfortable room from his beloved violin.

"Sherlock, you're doing it again."

"Am I? I hadn't noticed. How long was it this time?"

"Not that long- only a couple hours since the first half of your sentence. Frankly, I don't get how you fall into these deep trances all the time."

A soft clicking and rustling came from where John was sitting. Curious, he lifted his previously closed eyes to the doctor. He blinked in surprise. John was _knitting. _

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're _knitting."_

"Glad to see your powers of observation haven't dulled, Sherlock. A man _can _knit, you know. It's just not common. Besides, I need a scarf. It's getting cold."

Sherlock stared at the thick, graceful fingers, sliding and tucking the strands of yarn over the wooden sticks, slowly adding another line of loops to the dark blue scarf.

"Want to learn?" John held the thing in his hands, slightly toward the observer.

"I GIVE UP! I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, JOHN!"

Sherlock had been fumbling with the stuff for the better part of an hour, and John's patient instructions weren't making sense. The sudden bellow made John startle, his warm fingers jerking over his student's, trying to get them in the right position. But as much as Sherlock enjoyed the comfortable heaviness of his hands, he couldn't stand being so useless. John grinned, and moved to his own seat, and continued to work on the scarf.

Sherlock followed him with his eyes, content to watch. He didn't notice the thick bundle of knots encircling his fingers until several minutes had passed.

"Jaaawn…my hands are tied."

**John, you look cold.**

The two had been standing at the scene for two hours, much longer than expected, and John was shaking in his oatmeal jumper, while Sherlock was pacing around the corpse, warm in his ever- present scarf, leather gloves, and long black coat.

"Do you see this, John? Most interesting, the way the victim is lying- as if holding something- but what? What do you think, John?"

He turned to the shorter man, and immediately noticed his friend's shivers.

Sherlock swiftly unbuttoned his coat, and moved to drape the left side over John, ignoring the stares of Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson.

"You looked cold."

**This is how you do it, John.**

John grumbled unintelligibly from his position in front of Sherlock, his chin _ached_, and his shoulders were getting tired. He said so to Sherlock, and the taller man simply laughed and said this was revenge for teaching him (or trying to) how to knit.

"Alright, Sherlock. I give up. Learning to play the violin is simply impossible."

"Like this, John."

He curled his thin fingers around John's hand, and the other hand rested on the violin, pressing the doctor's digits to the strings. A swift pull on the bow and a note hung in the air, trembling like the million flecks of dust dancing in the window's light. His chest was pressed to John's back and shoulders and he could _feel_ the sharp intake of breath as the doctor inhaled.

John laughed weakly, and let go, stumbling over a muttered excuse about having to call Harry as he left the room.

Sherlock smiled serenely, and started to play.

**Sherlock, don't- don't do that.**

Sherlock was pouting, _pouting _adorably, while one hand was held toward John. His pink lower lip was thrust out, ladylike in its delicacy.

"Pleeeease, John? Pleeeease?"

John sighed and pressed one of his precious, _expensive_ chocolates into the waiting palm, wincing as it was deposited unceremoniously into an open mouth.

Damn, he had this down to an _art._

**Please review! More adorable Sherlock to come! Suggestions are welcome! **


	2. Chapter 2

***IF I OWNED SHERLOCK, WHY WOULD I BE WRITING FANFIC ABOUT IT?**

****SO(OBVIOUSLY), I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK. THANK YOU.**

_Alright, since my fans (and friends- hi, Anna, hi, Sophie) have been begging (ahem, _pestering_) me for more, I decided to post a second chapter today. Thank them, and thank the people who reviewed, because all this pleading and puppy dog eyes have motivated me to get off my kind of lazy behind and write chapter two instead of doing my global homework. (I hope you're proud of yourselves) And now, my loyal readers- here is part two. Enjoy!_

**Rubber duckie…**

**(**rubber duckie is dedicated to Prothoe, who made my day with their review)

John could hear a sloshing coming from the bathroom. Sherlock had been in there for an hour already, and he was getting curious as to what, exactly, he was doing. He decided to take a peek (whoa, John! You pervert!)-_shut up _he said to himself, and pushed the door open, sticking his head in.

He wasn't prepared for this.

He _really _wasn't prepared for this.

Oh god, was that a _rubber duckie?!_

He could see a soggy mop of dark brown hair, no longer curly, and plastered to Sherlock's skull. The detective was seated in the bathtub (which was filled with lemon scented bubbles), playing with a bright yellow rubber duck. A rubber duck that had a little rubber pirate hat and a little pirate eyepatch.

Sherlock twisted around at the choking John, who was trying _really hard _to stop laughing.

"_Jeez, Sherlock_, is that a rubber duck? What's his name?"

John managed to gasp this out with some difficulty, and left the bathroom, cackling madly.

He didn't hear Sherlock's low mumble.

"He's Squeakers, okay? And he's the scourge of the seven seas, so don't insult him..."

**You're the dancing queen, Sherlock…**

John sniggered to himself. He had managed to drag Sherlock to the pub, and after a couple sips, got the younger man well and truly drunk. Well, maybe not completely drunk, but just rather tipsy. He was a good friend of the owner, and had convinced him to dig out the karaoke machine and plug it in. Now John was going to get Sherlock onstage.

"Sherlock, look, it's a bomb!" John pointed to the cumbersome machine, a microphone lying innocently on top. "You're a genius- go and see if you can disable it!"

He shoved Sherlock towards the thing, and waited.

Sherlock squinted down at the collection of items before him.

Bloody…he was staring at a karaoke machine! He wasn't going to sing!

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!" The doctor fed the crowd a chant, and they roared at the lone man in front of them.

He sighed. _Mob mentality…_

After browsing through the selections, he narrowed his eyes at the screen, trying to read the bright words-_ why are the letters moving?_

_Blimey_, Sherlock! John didn't know he could sing so well! His deep voice rose and fell, and the floor was shaking with the wild spasmodic movements defined as dancing.

The crowd went insane after Sherlock's drunk, but rousing rendition of Dancing Queen. He bowed several times, hair flopping up and down, and then collapsed in a tangle of thin limbs.

The consulting detective woke the next day with a thumping in his head and the lyrics to Dancing Queen ringing shrilly in his ears.

**I'll make you beg for mercy…twice.**

John was straddling Sherlock's waist, his fingers on the pinned man's abdomen.

The victim was struggling, shrieking, and bucking his hips in attempts to throw the heavier man off.

John grinned evilly, and proceeded to tickle Sherlock's sensitive sides.

"Please, John! Stop!"

"_Please!"_

The doctor got off and strode away, smirking.

"That'll teach you not to touch my strawberry jam."

**We're doing the laundry, Mrs. Hudson.**

Sherlock sneaked into John's room while he was taking a shower(singing horribly off-key, too), and stuffed all his clothes into a sack.

John discovered this soon afterwards, and with an ear- piercing squeal, decided to get revenge. He retaliated a few hours later, when Sherlock was taking a bubble bath (John "accidentally" dumped a whole can of tomato sauce on the detective), and took all of _his_ clothes.

This was why the men were wandering the flat with towels slung about their hips.

They hid in their rooms for the rest of the day, after Mrs. Hudson walked in (to clear out the fridge), and ran out screaming when she saw the two completely naked and slapping at each other angrily with their towels.

The duo only wandered out the next day, when their laundry was done and delivered to the door, with a note: _Boys, if you're going to go about enjoying your relationship (don't worry, there's all sorts around here), then you'll have to do it with the door locked and inside your bedrooms! _

Mrs. Hudson saw neither hide nor hair of them for a week.

**We're heterosexual life partners, Angelo.**

John tried to shoo away the candle as it was deposited by the large, bearded man. He walked away with a wink and his usual "Dinner's on the house for you and your date, Sherlock!" while John moaned despairingly into his hands.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"He thinks we're _dating_, Sherlock! Tell him we aren't!"

Sherlock blinked and looked down at his menu.

When Angelo came to deliver their meal, he stage- whispered to John:_ You two make a good couple- take care of Sherlock, yeah?. _

Sherlock smiled winningly at the friendly man, and thanked him.

John spluttered indignantly, and Sherlock peacefully sipped at his drink.

**For the last time, Angelo, we're not gay.**

Sherlock stared hungrily at John's plate of spaghetti. John, noticing, decided to offer him some. "Would you like a bite, Sherlock? You seem hungry- there's too much on my plate, anyway."

Sherlock gave a tentative nod.

John gathered some spaghetti on his fork and reaching across the table lifted it to Sherlock's mouth.

The other man parted his lips obediently, and the fork was pushed gently into his mouth.

Angelo walked in on this scene right as the fork was poised before Sherlock's face. He grinned knowingly, and with a conspicuous wink, sauntered away.

"_For the last time-we're not a couple!"_

He turned to Sherlock, who was chewing contentedly on his mouthful of food, then looked down at the utensil, gleaming cheerfully in his hand.

_Oh god. They were a couple._

**You look beautiful, Sherlock.**

Sherlock was gliding through the ballroom, scanning the crowd for the suspect. He silently cursed at the train of his deep purple ball gown, and, not for the last time, John.

They were undercover at a party, dressed for their parts. John was Mr. Watson, and Sherlock was Mrs. Watson.

He was flabbergasted when a tall, striking, dark haired beauty appeared in his doorway, draped in purple silk, with luminescent skin and pale eyes. The stranger flung some clothing at his face. Then she spoke in a deep baritone.

"Stop gawking, John, and put on your suit. We're going to a party."

All throughout the car ride, he was staring at Sherlock, awestruck at how skilled the man was at disguises. His necklace managed to cover his Adam's apple, and fake breasts were attached to his chest.

"Alright, John, here's our story. You and I are old friends of the host from uni- I won't speak because I'm sick (not talking should hide my deep voice). You create a distraction and I sneak up behind our suspect and disable him. Got that?"

"Why are you a woman?"

"He'll be looking for two men. If we go as a couple, then he won't suspect a thing- he knows my name, but he doesn't know yours. You're too muscular and…_manly_ to be a woman- therefore, I'm the best choice. Now stop staring at my chest!"

The couple was dancing, weaving elegantly through the other pairs. John didn't know Sherlock could dance. He was surprised at himself for remembering the waltz- it had been so long…

Sherlock was looking down at him with those unfathomable eyes, green and grey and pale blue.

"You make a pretty convincing woman, Sherly."

'Sherly' blushed maidenly, and looked elsewhere.

_You're beautiful, Sherlock._

**Suggestions are welcome! Please review!**_  
_


	3. Chapter 3

***UH, DOES IT LOOK LIKE I OWN SHERLOCK?**

***THE ANSWER IS NO. I OWN NOTHING ASSOCIATED WITH SHERLOCK.**

_In this chapter, I'll be dedicating several of my mini- stories to the people who left me happy reviews and to the writers of totally awesome stories. See if you can find yours!_

**Don't cry, Sherlock. **

_(dedicated to StoneWingedAngel)_

"W-why did A-amy and Rory have to die?! Why did they jump? I can't handle this, John!"

John stared at his flatmate, who was currently sobbing at the end credits of a Doctor Who episode. He didn't know Sherlock would react so… strongly to this.

Sherlock sobbed harder as the theme song played, clutching a bowl of Jammy Dodgers to his thin chest.

The doctor shifted, accidently pressing a button on the remote control.

The screen jumped to the scene in the graveyard.

Sherlock stared at it for a minute, still as a rock, as the Doctor pleaded at Amy.

The detective wailed.

**It's alright, Sherlock. There, there.**

_(dedicated to nemononames)_

John's bedroom door creaked open, and a soft orange strip of light from the hallway fell on his face. Sherlock pushed at the wood gently, until the opening was wide enough for him to slip through.

He eased himself into the covers, his limbs folding neatly until the detective's body was curled towards the army medic. At the movement of his mattress, the shorter man woke up, squinting blearily at Sherlock's dim face.

"Sherlock? Why are you here?"

"Nightmare. I dreamt you were dead, John. That night by the pool…"

He shuddered delicately, and John felt the overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around Sherlock.

They breathed quietly in the dark, getting drowsier as minutes passed. John was falling asleep until…

"Ah! Sherlock! Your feet are cold!"

**Meow.**

_(dedicated to NormalsBoring)_

John came home to a small, furry surprise.

Not really a surprise- more like an ambush. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, a flying _thing_ came towards his face, spitting, hissing, and scratching.

He yelled in surprise, and swatted the animal off.

"SHERLOCK! What is this?!"

The tall man turned his head. He was stretched lazily along the length of the couch, with another cat purring on his chest.

"I think you know, John. It's a cat. That one is Fluffy and this one is Mycroft."

He rubbed his cheek along the cat's, which bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock's brother- ginger and fat.

"Well, they'd better be gone tomorrow, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson didn't say we could keep animals in here." _One is enough_ thought John, glancing at the other man.

To his immense surprise, they were indeed absent the next morning. As he walked past Sherlock on his way to the kitchen for his morning tea, he patted Sherlock's bouncy hair.

"Good boy, Sherlock."

Sherlock purred.

**Cheating, John?**

_(for ThoroughlySherlocked)_

Sherlock steepled his fingers thoughtfully beneath his (chinfinite) chin. He narrowed his eyes at John, who was currently nursing a steaming mug of his precious tea.

It was a lusty affair.

"John, I don't think Sarah would approve of this _hot_ action over here."

John ignored him and gazed lovingly into the beverage, water vapor drifting into his eyes.

**A is for apple…**

_(for Violette1415scs)_

Sherlock twisted the stem of the apple, shining red and gold in his pale hands.

_F, G, H, I, J!_

The stem snapped off at the letter, and Sherlock whooped happily, oblivious to the questioning stare of his flatmate, sitting across from him.

"Ahem. It's nothing. Just another experiment."

John nodded, and scanned the newspaper in front of him for the horoscopes section, looking for Sherlock's sign.

**Stay **_**still**_**, Sherlock.**

Sherlock hissed, his breath seeping out through his teeth, and wafting over John in a warm haze of chocolate. John probed gently at his arm, and another catlike sound escaped the injured detective.

He rolled up the blood drenched sleeve, hands shaking slightly. The doctor was here, and in full force. After cleaning the deep gash and bandaging it, John scolded Sherlock thoroughly.

"I can't believe you cornered that man! He had a knife in his hand, Sherlock! _A knife!_ He could have done much worse than give you a cut on the arm! Do you know how much I-"

John stopped there, and glared while Sherlock gazed up into his eyes, his own all wet and big and imploring. The blond sighed, and walked away to get cleaned up. When he returned, he saw Sherlock, sleeping. John smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth crinkling, and laid a peck on the detective's soft hair.

_I do love you, Sherlock._

**What's a fangirl? John? John!**

_(and to all my wonderful followers, this one is for you)_

John and Sherlock stared out of the window fearfully, watching the colourful crowd of teenage girls with their neon shirts (I'm JohnLocked and proud! written in bright marker) and high pitched squeals.

Mrs. Hudson had attempted to shoo them away with a broom, but they just stepped aside and waited for her to go back in. The mob was huge, spilling off the sidewalk and blocking the street. The girls roared, the flat shaking with the magnitude of their voices. Sherlock twitched, and stalked out, intimidating in his dark suit.

John watched as the man stepped outside, and was immediately attacked by the enthusiastic shrieks of their fans.

Sherlock was carried away, while the doctor watched in horror.

The girls' high pitched squeals grew impossibly thin, until the glass in the flat quivered threateningly.

What the _hell._ They were- were they? They were lifting Sherlock onto their shoulders, passing him over the mass of people.

Some hands were in the wrong place. John swore he could see several hands pinch the man's buttocks.

After an hour of unspeakably traumatizing torture, Sherlock stumbled back in, and slumped on the couch. John draped an orange shock blanket over him, along with a mug of warm tea.

They made a silent vow to never mention that night again.

**For God's sakes, Sherlock!**

Maybe it wasn't exactly smart to fight a martial arts expert in the dead of night.

Maybe it would've gone better if he had a gun with him

Maybe he shouldn't have provoked the martial arts experts who had gone on a killing spree throughout the city.

John found Sherlock unconscious, the killer seated atop the detective, about to strike his fist into the pale curve of Sherlock's exposed throat. A few warning shots into the attacker's limbs, and they were grabbed by Lestrade and handcuffed.

The army medic kneeled beside Sherlock's head, and checked his pulse.

He sighed, and drew Sherlock into his arms, as if carrying a bride on her wedding day.

Yeah, this was a normal relationship, constantly getting shot at, cut, bruised, attacked, and kidnapped.

And John wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world.

**Review, and tell me what other situations you want this lovely couple to be in!**


	4. Chapter 4

***YEAH, I TOTALLY OWN SHERLOCK**

_****UH, NO I DON'T.**_

_Okay, I'll stop begging for reviews. Here's the fourth chapter! Gosh, you people are demanding._

_p.s. The spelling mistake in one of John's texts is on purpose, as he is overcome with rage and cannot type properly._

**Aw, Sherlock, that's too cute.**

_(for PhoenixFlame123)_

John snuck into Sherlock's room one night. It was plain, stark, and the only furniture were necessary items, like the desk in the corner and the bed, which Sherlock was sleeping on.

Sleeping…and squeezing an oversized teddy bear to his stomach.

John smiled fondly, and stroked his black curls. Sherlock dreamily pressed his head into his palm. He resisted the urge to coo, and, rising, left the room.

"….nnnn, John…"

**You can have a cheeseburger, Sherlock.**

_(for TheReaderWithAScarf)_

"Jaaaawn?"

"Jaaaaawn, what is this?"

Sherlock was scrolling down a website on John's laptop, eyes flickering over dozens of pictures.

Pictures of cute cats, overlaid with thick bolded word, misspelled horrendously.

Yes, Sherlock was on icanhascheezburger.

His dearest flatmate shuffled over, laying the newspaper down with a ruffle. He squinted at the screen.

"I can has cheezburger? I've heard of that. Sarah likes to look at the pictures- says they're cute."

Sherlock sniffed as John plodded away, and clicked on _see moar cats._

**Er, Sherlock? I **_**really**_** didn't need to see that.**

_(for my lovely stalker, Dumpling47)_

John was roused in the middle of a pleasant dream (involving chocolates and kittens) by a feminine, but deep voice.

A voice coming from Sherlock's room.

He peered sleepily at the bedside clock. _4:36 am._ And he had work in a few hours. John decided to go tell Sherlock and whoever it was to shut up. Who cares if they were doing unsavory things in the middle of the night? He needed his (beauty) sleep.

John stood by the partially ajar door, peeking into the dimly lit room. There was Sherlock, hugging his violin. He scanned the area for a woman, but could see no one else.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're such a handsome man! Touch me with your hands!"

_What. The. Hell._

John stared, eyes wide. He couldn't look away.

Sherlock was speaking in a falsetto, crooning in a lover's voice to his violin.

"Of course, my dearest- here-"

He picked up the bow and was lovingly stroking it across the strings.

John backed away, slowly.

The next morning, John avoided his flatmate's eyes, instead mumbling into his mug whenever Sherlock said something to him. Sherlock, for the life of him, couldn't figure out why the man was so flustered.

**Are you **_**jealous, Sherlock?**_

_(for sparrowismyhummingbird)_

John had walked home from the pub one night in the warm, pouring rain. He was completely soaked, water sloughing off him in buckets. His alcohol muddled eyes landed on a drenched, bedraggled dog, seemingly abandoned.

He took it home and named him Fluffikins.

When John brought the dog home to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock immediately assumed that John would take care of it for a few days and give it to the animal center. _WRONG._

The first clue should have been the fact that _he gave it a name._ The second? John had let the dog sleep in his bed that very night. Not even Sherlock got cuddling privileges from his dear Watson in that short a time!

He didn't really understand John's attraction to Fluffikins- the monster was huge- black, with thick, curly fur and large blue eyes- a peculiar mix of traits.

He had nothing against dogs. But when they hogged every second of his belov- _ahem_- flatmate's attention, he started to get a bit suspicious. When the dog wolfed down the breakfast that was _lovingly cooked for him_ _by John_, he devised seventy-three plans to make the thing disappear. When the damned animal started sleeping on John's lap every time he sat down and took up the whole seat when Sherlock wanted to cuddle, he was just about ready to turn it into a pair of gloves.

One day, the dog chewed on one of John's jumpers.

It was gone the next morning, living with Lestrade, and Sherlock had John all to himself again.

_Stupid dog- I'm happy it's gone now-_thought Sherlock, wrapped around John while he read his papers. He licked John's hand.

**I'm a laptop, John! Look at me!**

_(for sparrowismyhummingbird)_

John had been glued to his laptop for approximately six hours, twelve minutes, and forty- three seconds. Sherlock, in the meantime, was completely jealous of the sinister, inanimate object.

As soon as John finished his breakfast that morning, he sat at the table sipping his tea, studying the screen of his little machine from hell.

"John. Jawn. Jaaawn. John, talk to me."

Sherlock strummed his violin, pouting all the while. He would have to take drastic measures to get his attention.

Several loud cracks startled John from the devilishly cheerful screen that was glowing innocently. He sighed, snatched his gun from Sherlock, and sat back down.

Damn the infernal object.

Over the course of the next few hours, John had migrated to his comfy armchair, the laptop on his (where else?) lap. Sherlock huffed. He'd have to use his last resort.

The lanky detective scooped the evil object off of John's warm thighs, immediately replacing it with his pyjama clad buttocks. He curled around John, arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook between the doctor's jaw and shoulder, breathing in the scent of soap and tea.

John chuckled, and Sherlock could feel the vibrations thrumming where their torsos touched.

Then the laptop blipped menacingly.

**NOOOO! Not the oatmeal one!**

10th Jan. _11:23 am_

John, where are you? SH

10th Jan. _11:25 am_

I'm at work, Sherlock. Now stop bothering

me. Go and bug Lestrade. JW

10th Jan. _11:25 am_

Please come home, John- I think I have the influenza. SH

10th Jan. _11:26 am_

Shi-

Don't go out, Sherlock. Stay. Home. I'll be back in an

hour at the most. Go to bed and drink plenty of

warm water. I repeat- don't. Go. Anywhere. JW

10th Jan. _11:31 am_

Sherlock? JW

10th Jan. _11:35 am_

Don't worry, John. An intruder broke in with a knife.

I disabled him. He's tied to the chair with one of your scarves.

Hope you don't mind! SH

10th Jan. _11:36 am_

By the way, he's got a nasty concussion- he's bleeding all over

our floor. You should take a look at it.

p. s. my throat hurts SH

10th Jan. _11:56 am_

I'm on my way home now, Sherlock. JW

10th Jan. _11: 57 am_

Mind picking up some milk and biscuits? Thanks.

SH

10th Jan. _12:22 pm_

I have the shopping. Did you just say thanks? Exactly

how ill do you feel? JW

10th Jan. _12:24 pm_

Very. Now hurry up. I want a hug. SH

10th Jan. _12:26 pm_

Or else I might throw up on your favourite jumper. SH

10th Jan. _12:26 pm_

DON'T YOU DAER, SHERLOKC HOLMS. JW

10th Jan. _12:27 pm_

Sherlock… JW

10th Jan. _12:28 pm_

I must ask you a question, John… are you fond of that

oatmeal coloured jumper? SH

10th Jan. _12: 30 pm_

__It was my favourite jumper...I'll kill you, Sherlock. JW

10th Jan _12:31 pm_

__After you get all better, of course. JW


	5. Chapter 5

***IF ONLY I HAD A GENIE TO GRANT MY WISHES. THEN JOHNLOCK WOULD BE SO CANON.**

****UNFORTUNATELY, THEY'RE NOT, AND I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK.**

*****SO HERE IS FLUFF AND MAYBE A FEW KISSES EXCHANGED BETWEEN OUR LOVELIES**

_I really should do my homework. But the story has been calling to me, so here it is. Chapter five._

**Stripes or polka dots, John?**

Sherlock strode into the room one chilly evening, wearing nothing but his pants and his manly Pride.

"Stripes or polka dots, John?"

John looked up, his mouth large enough to swallow a couple elephants.

"Uh, polka dots, I guess?"

Sherlock stalked back out, muttering to himself. John could catch snippets of the one- sided conversation.

"…didn't expect…dots…more tests…"

The next day, Sherlock walked into the room and asked John what his favourite colour was.

"Blue, I guess."

Sherlock left, more of an enigma than he was three minutes ago.

Everything was normal (as normal as could be when you have an insane, high-functioning sociopath as a flatmate)- Sherlock inspected body parts under his microscope, John threw out Sherlock's collection of fingers because they were on his side of the fridge, and Mrs. Hudson came up to check on the two.

That night, Sherlock swept in, wearing his dressing gown over a pair of blue polka-dotted pants.

**MORE-iar-TEA, Sherlock?**

"John. More tea."

"Sherlock, manners."

"I prefer not to conform to social conventions. Too predictable. Dull."

"You're _welcome_, Sherlock. Be careful with the mug- it's hot. You might not be able to _handle _it."

"Really, John? Puns? That is the lowest form of witticism."

"Well, I don't tea any problem with puns. They're rather wit-tea sometimes."

"John."

"I'm a bit thirs-_tea_. I'll make another cup."

"John. Please."

"You don't like my puns? Too bad. I'm going to _milk_ this for all it's worth- or, at least, until I run out of puns."

"I'm begging here, John."

"Vengeance is sweet."

"John, please. _please, _John."

"Alrigh - tea, Sherlock. I think you've suffered enough. Good night."

**Whaddup, dawg?**

Sherlock swaggered into the room. There really was no other way to describe it. He _swaggered._

"Yo John, wassup."

"What is this, Sherlock? Investigating for a case?"

"Yeah, man. You got it."

John takes in the sight of Sherlock, every centimeter of his lanky body. He's wearing saggy jeans, a baggy purple shirt, _sneakers_(do you even know how wrong that is? Sneakers. On Sherlock), several chunky gold chains around his swanlike neck, and sunglasses. He looked like a posh twenty-something man trying to act seventeen.

John spluttered, tea dripping down his chin, and, cackling, left the room.

"Dude. What was that?"

**Tea party in my palace at three, John.**

_(dedicated to wetrustno1, from whom I have borrowed this lovely idea of couch forts)_

John stumbled over a cushion on his way to the kitchen. He had been sitting in his comfy armchair by the fireplace, napping, when he woke with a start with the unquenchable _urge_ inside him that thirsted for tea.

So he got up for some tea.

Why did he stumble over that cushion?

Sherlock.

There, in front of the grizzled old soldier's eyes, was a _massive_ fort that scraped the ceiling, built out of elegantly draped blankets, piles of cushions, flying buttresses of chairs, and walls of cardboard, which, he suspected, were salvaged from Mrs. Hudson's trash, seeing as she'd ordered a new refrigerator last week.

But never mind that the cardboard walls were made from the refrigerator box of last week's trash.

It was one amazing feat of architecture- and there! The Union Jack pillow, impaled upon a fork atop the highest tower.

And Sherlock poked his head out of the parted jewel-hued blankets, inquiring if John wanted to enter his palace and have a bit of tea.

So Watson played along and ducked in.

It was dim, and warm inside, the only source of light was the weak sun filtering through the thin fabric, and an amber- coloured lamp in the centre of the floor.

They giggled a bit, sipping from their mugs and gingerly nudging at each other, careful not to knock down the delicate structure.

And when Mrs. Hudson came up to see if anyone wanted some freshly baked biscuits-_I'm not your housekeeper, dears, but would you boys like a snack-_she found the two men (Sherlock, smiling into John's neck, and John, snoring with his mouth wide open) sleeping.

**I am a high- functioning sociopath, and I don't want to be alone.**

Sherlock had been acting oddly the whole day- not that he wasn't odd (what kind of a man who keeps a skull and stores body parts in the fridge is normal?), but more…amiable. Yeah, amiable. Sherlock was surprisingly agreeable today, hardly insulting John, not playing the violin at bloody three twenty- seven in the morning, and even made a cup of tea for John (it tasted a bit like bleach- John discreetly poured the whole thing into the fireplace when Sherlock pretended not to look).

He even managed to stop himself from insulting Donovan and Lestrade, though he couldn't hold back when he saw Anderson (there were a few scathing comments on the state of Anderson's marriage, unsatisfactory sex, and a particularly rude one about his ancestry that left Anderson a sobbing mess, the onlookers with their mouths hanging open in awe and pity, and Sherlock grinning smugly).

The most surprising detail about the whole thing was how he treated John. He kept glancing over at him in the middle of deducting, furtive peeks, as if wanting his approval. There was constant touching- soft, butterfly brushes against John's elbow and shoulder when he walked past, touching thighs and knees in the car, and even folding his alabaster fingers around John's tanned wrist, tugging him along excitedly.

John definitely noticed these things.

And when Sherlock has been _tender_ to John all day, and ignoring everybody else (because really, that's the best he can do when not insulting people), but _hasn't spoken a single word to John_, the doctor definitely thought something was up.

So John corners Sherlock that evening, in 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock's pressed flush to the wall, pinned by the blond man's arm and asked, no, _demanded_, why he was being so strange that day, Sherlock blurts out- _ because I like you and I need you to stay and I don't want you to go and I know you don't like it when people are rude so that's why I was trying not to be rude today except to Anderson, because, really, the man is an idiot-_ in one big rush of breath, leaving John wondering more about how he said that on one inhale of oxygen and not about the whole pleading thing.

Then he asks _why, Sherlock? What makes you think I'd leave?_

And Sherlock is hiccupping with unshed tears, slightly hysterical-_because you broke up with Sarah for the sixth time last night, and I deducted it, and you got angry and said you were going to leave me because I pry in your business and I have no manners-_and that train of thought is stopped by John's warm, solid hug, and they sink onto the floor, John laughing because _no, I'd never leave you, Sherlock_ and Sherlock is pretending nothing happened _it was merely an experiment, John- I know you'd never leave_ but they both know his moment of panic was genuine because nobody could fake that note of fear in his voice, but everything's okay, everything's alright, and _calm down, Sherlock, have a cup of tea, yeah?_

And _honestly, John, anyone would think you loved tea more than life itself._

John just hugs his tin of expensive tea _I don't know what you're implying, Sherlock._

**Hello, world- this is me, Sherlock Holmes, trying to flirt.**

"Good morning, John. You're looking particularly dashing in those pyjamas of your today."

"Er, thank you, Sherlock?"

John shuffles past Sherlock, suspicious, and prepares his morning tea.

"I must say, John, no one makes a cup of tea like you do- and looking so handsome at the same time, too."

By now, John has a vague idea of what Sherlock is doing, but dismisses it as ridiculous and puts it down as sleep deprivation.

At the crime scene, the flirting is on full power. Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade don't know what to make of this.

While John inspects the dead body, Sherlock's comments are making him rather hot under the collar.

"John, your fingers are so dexterous- I can only imagine what they can do in bed."

Sherlock says this thinly veiled innuendo with a straight face, in a monotone, and everyone around them chokes.

"With all the strings of lovers you've had in the past, you must be extremely experienced in the field of physical relations."

John sighs, and decides to talk to Sherlock when they get home.

"Sherlock, what was that? You've been strange- stranger than normal- with all those comments today."

"I was _flirting_, John. And I thought you would know, after all those failed attempts in the pub-"

"-Hey!"

"-and those _many_ women you've courted."

John sighs, as it's his favorite way of showing his exasperation at Sherlock's actions. He thinks that in these past few years with Sherlock, he must have produced more carbon dioxide than all the population on Earth.

"And exactly why, were you flirting?"

"I wanted your attention, John."

This is spoken in a low mutter, so that John has to strain to hear what was said.

And John is flabbergasted.

**Join the club.**

_(for Violette1415scs)_

Sherlock was handing John a pale blue shirt- it's a bright colour, and if asked, he would probably describe it as electric blue. There's words on it, too: _the Sherlock Appreciation Club_, in sparkly blue glitter.

He's speechless at the fabulousness of it all.

"I suppose you're wondering what this is. You have now been inducted into the Sherlock Appreciation Club. Congratulations on getting the privilege of being in my presence , peasant."

John still hasn't said a word.

And Sherlock leaves, kingly and tall in his full body jumpsuit (in electric blue), with the words (glittering merrily on his behind), _smart is the new sexy_ spread over the fabric.

**Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…**

John and Sherlock are leaving the victim's house, after inspecting every nook and cranny for clues. The last part they check is the pool, shining innocently in all its chlorinated glory.

Sherlock trips over a cat, trying to regain his feet but failing to, and falls headfirst into the water.

John expects the dark head to bob up any moment now, but twenty seconds have passed and he might be a little bit concerned.

So he dives in _never mind the bloody clothes, he could be drowning,_ and drags the unconscious detective out of the water.

He thinks Sherlock has a habit of being carried by John while unconscious.

John knows what to do, and presses his mouth to Sherlock's, pushing air into him. He pushes at his chest, and then Sherlock is coughing, gasping, and… laughing? Sherlock is laughing, and then John is too, and Sherlock makes a joke about how John takes advantage of vulnerable detectives while they're out of it.

Then Sherlock shivers in his dripping clothes, and John is shucking the wet coat off of him, then the suit jacket, the shirt, the trousers, shoes, socks, until Sherlock is shaking lightly in John's dry coat (because John threw it off before he jumped), mewling in protest, but keeps the coat wrapped around his shoulders, even though it's small on him. Then John's there, giggling about how Sherlock looks, with his wet, tousled curls, and naked but for his pants and the coat, which he dwarfs.

"Shut up John, you hobbit."

THERE YOU GO, MY DEAREST FANS. I LIKE REVIEWS. THIS IS ME, NOT BEGGING.


	6. Chapter 6

***GUYS, I WISH I OWNED SHERLOCK**

****MAYBE WHEN PIGS FLY.**

_There will be much kissing in here. Must be the feeling of being lonely on New Year's Eve. I'm feeling a bit down. My nose isn't working properly, as it is stuffed with copious amounts of phlegm. I had to sleep with my mouth open and I drooled._

_Plot twist: I'm a fish._

**The bloody self- checkout machine- for God's sake-**

John drags Sherlock with him to do the shopping.

"We need the milk," he says, while Sherlock gives a weak gurgle, as if he's dying, because really, _shopping_- that's so- so-

"Human, Sherlock. I'm a human, you're a human-well, mostly- and humans have basic needs, such as food. "

"But why did you have to go and bring me along?" whines Sherlock, not unlike a three year old refusing to eat his veggies.

"You haven't been out of the flat for three weeks, Sherlock- you should get some fresh air in you."

Sherlock knows not to argue when the doctor emerges, so instead he asks if he can get an extra box of nicotine patches and a carton of ice cream, and John, knowing this will shut him up, nods.

So the two get their things, and then there's John's mortal enemy, staring at him with that innocent, evil little plastic screen. He holds the ice cream up to the scanner- a pause- the machine beeps reassuringly as the price comes up, then the next one, and the next, but then nicotine patches come up. They wait for several seconds with no result.

Sherlock starts muttering to himself about how he could twiddle with the wires inside to make it work, and the rest of the line is shooting murderous glares at the duo, so John loses it, right there, in the grocery store.

He curses loudly in English and a couple of foreign languages he's learned from his time in the army, and lands a swift kick on the thing.

They are kicked out of the store somehow in the next three minutes- John doesn't remember what happened- it was all a blur- but they are banned from the place, and bugger if he's ever going to shop there anyway, stupid machines-he has what he needs, though, in crinkly bags, and the two walk home, trying to retain their dignity.

**Mummy Holmes**

_(for sparrowismyhummingbird, who has a tuxedo fetish)_

John straightens the black bow tie, where it rests, still crooked, under Sherlock's chin. It's an Important Event today, and that's why they're wearing tuxedos. Well, John's wearing one- Sherlock just sort of has fabric stretched tightly over his chest. It's odd how his button-down shirts never fit around that area. That's why he leaves the top two buttons undone. He cuts a striking figure in that tuxedo, and the dark cloth of the outfit makes Sherlock look positively…_ahem._

(That glimpse of skin drives Molly insane. She stares at it for a full seven minutes before making eye contact.)

John never thought he would meet the mysterious Mrs. Holmes. When Mycroft arrived that morning with his umbrella in tow (he's beginning to suspect the umbrella is his wife) and hands the flatmates two tuxedos and tells them to get dressed, John was confused. Really, _really _confused.

"It's mummy's birthday, Sherlock," hisses Mycroft.

"She's turning fifty-eight years old today. You know she'd want you to be there."

"Why would mummy expect me to come, when I haven't attended any of her parties in the last eight years? Besides, I don't see the point in exchanging gifts and eating cake just to celebrate living another year. It's not that hard."

Mycroft narrows his eyes, and drags Sherlock to a corner of the room by his elbow. There is a bit of whispering, and a few pointed glances thrown John's way, which makes him suspect that the conversation is about him.

Sherlock agrees, and the clothes are shoved rudely into John's chest.

They drive for three hours, and John is just about ready to kill Sherlock with Mycroft's umbrella (the brothers must have sensed this, because halfway through the trip, they shift away from John), and the sleek black car (could its inconspicuousness be any more conspicuous?) stops in front of a mansion sort of thing.

John kind of gapes, and Sherlock shoves him fondly. When he still hasn't budged, Sherlock _pinches_ him (_hey-don't touch me there-_) and the doctor jerks out of the car, followed by a graceful unfolding of limbs that is Sherlock.

Sherlock grasps John's hand in his cold violinist's fingers. John startles, and Sherlock smiles down at him.

"Ah, yes, I forgot to mention, John- Mummy thinks we're in a relationship. Doing physical things. With each other. That are not platonic. And are very sexual."

John's speechless for the dozenth time that day.

…_**whoa**_**, Sherlock.**

Sherlock is whacking at a fresh corpse rather forcefully with his riding crop.

John is peering through the glass window, curious and a little bit disturbed.

Also maybe a tiny bit attracted to the man.

He's slightly sweaty, swinging the thing over and over again. John didn't know he was that muscular. _Darn._

So when Sherlock comes out of the room, John is having Very Natural Reactions.

Sherlock is slammed against the wall and snogged within an inch of his life. After the Snog of Sherlock's Life, John walks away, leaving a dazed Sherlock and a pleasantly surprised Molly.

**Cup of tea, darling?**

"Sweetheart, pass me my phone?"

"Of course, dearest. Here."

"Darling, a cup of tea?"

"Yes, love- two sugars and no milk."

"Honey, you should sleep."

"Alright John, this is getting out of hand."

"I suppose it is, Sherlock, dear."

**John, John, the kettle is evil.**

Sherlock decides to make a cup of tea.

John is at work, and Sherlock is thirsty. He doesn't know how John makes it, though- how long does he steep it? How much sugar? How much milk?

He makes it into an experiment.

Two hours later, all the pots and pans they have in the flat are filled with tea, with various amounts of sugar, milk, and honey.

None of them tastes like John's tea.

Sherlock's left eyelid twitches.

When John walks through the door, a tousled, sweaty Sherlock flings himself at him, sobbing.

"I just wanted some tea, John! The tea hates me! The kettle hates me! They all hate me!"

John just smiles, rolls up his sleeves, and starts.

Several minutes later, the two are relaxing in their chairs, sipping at steaming mugs.

Sherlock still hasn't figured out the secret.

**Happy new year, Sherlock!**

Sherlock doesn't understand why people celebrate the new year. So what if it's the end of the calendar? It's just another day. So when John tells him he's going to stay up and celebrate, Sherlock plays along. He wants to see what all the fuss is about.

John doesn't meet his eyes for the next few hours, instead he blushes and looks away.

The countdown from ten begins.

Nine…eight…seven…six…

John is easing over to Sherlock's side of the couch.

Three..two…

Their faces are only centimeters apart, and Sherlock can feel John's breath ghosting over his chin.

One.

And Sherlock's being kissed by John. His arms don't know what to do, and he's flailing them as if batting nargles away while John's rough hands are strangely soft on his cheek and in his hair.

Sherlock sort of understands why people do this.

**You're sick.**

John blows his nose, the white tissue fluttering like some white flag of surrender.

Sherlock sure sees it that way- John's fighting a losing battle. He tried to climb out of bed that morning and instantly fell flat on his face. He was lying on his stomach on the floor of his room when Sherlock went in to find out what was taking so long.

Sherlock had nudged at him with the bow of his violin, and John curled in around it, like a hedgehog.

So Sherlock had to play mother that day.

First, breakfast. The omelet turned out well. It was a bit crispy around the edges, but edible.

John threw up over the side of the bed.

Sherlock tried not to take offense.

The sick doctor decided to go back to bed and sleep it off.

Now Sherlock was dictating the details of their newest case to John, while outrageous amounts of mucous poured out of his nose.

Sherlock was a little bit disgusted, but was mostly fascinated at how much mucous a sick person could produce.

He was kicked out of the room. A well aimed banana whacked him on the back of the head.

A peace offering of tea and Jammy Dodgers was received, and Sherlock tucked John into bed, curling on tops of the covers with him.

_I THINK THAT WAS A LOT OF KISSING, GUYS. NOW IT'S TURNED INTO MORE OF A FLUFFY ROMANCE SORT OF THING RATHER THAN A FUNNY FLUFFY THINGYMAJIGGLY._

_OOPS._


	7. Chapter 7

***HOW ABOUT WE VOTE ON WHO GETS TO OWN SHERLOCK? THEN I WOULD MAKE JOHNLOCK SO CANON.**

****WE DON'T GET TO DO THAT, SO I DON'T GET TO OWN SHERLOCK.**

**I just realized I don't need to put a disclaimer on top of every one of my chapters because it's already at the beginning of the story….**

**Whatever, man.**

**So winter break is over. I apologize in advance because I won't be able to update everyday (but I'll try my hardest, for my loyal fans!) **

**Holmes, sweet Holmes.**

John was leaving for the week, visiting his sister.

"Remember to eat at least once a day, and sleep for at least three hours every two days. Don't smoke, don't explode anything, and _don't burn the flat down._"

Sherlock pointedly ignored this, and scraped at his violin, harsh screeching clashes that voiced his disapproval.

"Sherlock…"

A discordant note.

"Well, I guess I'll be going, then. See you in a week. Bye."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, and listened to the thump of John's footsteps and suitcase down the stairs. A soft click and the slam of a cab door confirmed his departure.

He tilted his head backwards over the sofa, glaring at the ceiling. A huff escaped his mouth.

Only seven days left. He could handle it.

On the first day Sherlock played his violin. He composed three and a half pieces, then talked to the skull.

On the second day, Sherlock lurked at crime scenes, solving them in five minutes flat (he was taking his time), and sweeping away to find something else to do. He bothered Molly.

On the third day, Sherlock slept for a few hours and ate a bit. He took a bath and wrote down how long it took for his toes to get wrinkly. He used John's soap.

On the fourth day, Sherlock hacked into John's blog. Then he hacked his own website. Then he hacked Anderson's email and spammed him with two hundred thirty one emails- ninety three of them for genital enhancing drugs, and the other one hundred thirty eight advertisements for a website with pictures of amusing cats.

On the fifth day, Sherlock calculated how many hours were left until John would be home-_sixty three hours _- and fell asleep on John's bed, rolled up in his blankets and his face in John's pillow.

On the sixth day, Sherlock looked up pictures of hedgehogs (he liked them), sipping at John's special tea.

On the seventh day, Sherlock walked into the kitchen to see a John snoring on the sofa, more than a day early. He grinned and woke him with his favorite song and a mug of tea. (The tea was later discovered to contain salt, for Sherlock mixed up the containers in his excitement. This was forgiven. A cricket was heard chirping along to the tune. This, too, was forgiven.)

**Broken strings.**

_(I believe the person who this is dedicated to knows who they are)_

John woke at seven- thirty Tuesday morning. He was concerned at this. Usually, he woke to random notes or a soothing song played on Sherlock's violin. Today, there was no chaos.

He felt oddly displeased at this fact.

John discovered Sherlock, staring blankly at his violin, which looked dead, prone on the cushion, with its snapped strings curled up.

"Sherlock?"

This was unnoticed.

The silence was palpable, and he wanted Sherlock to irritate him with a rude deduction, or type loudly on (John's) laptop, or even the annoying notes he played (to anger John) on his violin. But there was nothing. The doctor got ready for work, gears whirring away. He took the violin with him when he left.

Sherlock didn't notice this, either.

When John came home, he noticed that Sherlock was in the same spot for nigh on ten hours.

So he gently laid the violin on his lap. The detective woke to the sight and weight of his violin, freshly strung, and with the tang of newly polished wood in his nose. The childlike look of utter adoration on his face as he looked up at John made his heart skip a beat.

(_I have zero experience with violins- I don't know if you can string a violin in a day or how polished wood smells-so if this offended you violin experts, I apologize profusely.)_

_(VERY profusely.)_

**We live on a farm, Sherlock. This is a bloody barnyard.**

**(**_this is dedicated to you know who you are- here, cocktails *evil laugh*)_

John woke to the sound of a crowing rooster.

_What the…_

He stared at the gold and red bird at the foot of his bed, and pressed his palms over his ears as the darn cock (see, cocktails) crowed again.

He fisted his hand around its tail, and gave a tug, making it topple onto the floor with a flutter of wings and a ridiculous amount of loose feathers.

"SHERLOOOOCK!"

**Ridiculous- I'm not afraid of anything.**

John grinned as Sherlock cowered under the covers, his trembling body making the whole bed shiver.

"Afraid of thunderstorms?"

Sherlock shot a glower at John, and attempted to stop his spastic movements, but failed miserably as another thunderclap sounded.

He was tucked under a warm arm and a soothing _there, there_ as the two men fell asleep.

**Harry- Sherlock. Sherlock- Harry. Don't kill each other.**

Sherlock winced delicately as the girl (woman) burst into the flat. She literally bounced, hopping her way through the books until she tackled John with a _whoomph_.

"Sherlock, meet Harry. Harry, Sherlock. Make nice and don't kill each other. I'll be watching."

John stood and went to make tea, while Harry (Harriet) scooted towards Sherlock. He scooted away. This odd game continued until Sherlock was trapped between an arm and the too-energetic-for- her- age woman.

"So, you and John…"

A confused blink.

"You're together, _together?_"

Sherlock took a few seconds to work it out.

"Yes."

Later, when they were all sipping at their tea, Sherlock was on the receiving end of some very conspicuous winks and nudges from the tipsy woman. She left a few minutes later with a- _ta, must get going now_ and a peck on the cheek for John. Before her departure, Harry gave Sherlock a few pointers.

John had never seen ears that red.


	8. Chapter 8

***MAYBE THEY'LL GIVE SHERLOCK IF I ASK NICELY.**

****PRETTY PLEASE?**

*****I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK.**

_I should be studying or doing my homework. But the siren…she calls…_

_And why do I have John walking into the kitchen in the morning to see Sherlock doing something weird all the time? I must have a fetish or something…heheh, naked Sherlock._

_Forgive me for my, uh, Americanisms. _

**A shirt would be nice, Sherlock. And maybe some pants, too.**

When John walked into the kitchen one ordinary Wednesday morning, he was _not_ prepared to see a naked Sherlock Holmes, fresh from the shower, making breakfast.

First of all, the man was _making breakfast_. John had rarely seen the detective cook. And judging by the smell, he was doing pretty well- no hint of burning eggs or too crispy toast.

Second, _Sherlock_ was _naked_. And not very long, too- only ten or fifteen minutes, from the sheen of water on his back and the dampness of the towel slung rather precariously around his hips. (he was rather adorable, as well- the dark hair plastered to his skull by the weight of the water made him look much younger)

John ignored this, and tried (key word, tried) to pretend that Holmes the younger was fully dressed.

That didn't work.

Sherlock served the eggs and toast. He disappeared for a couple of minutes, and sat down to eat. John choked on his mouthful of food, and hacked a lump flew over the table (it shot a good five yards across the room).

Sherlock was wearing his usual dark trousers _and John's favourite oatmeal coloured jumper. _His bare toes wiggled childishly as he ate, purposefully oblivious to John's stares.

**Cake, Mycroft?**

Mycroft had dropped by that afternoon to give the crime-solving duo a rather tricky case. John, out of politeness, asked if he wanted a bit of tea before he left.

Mycroft accepted the invitation.

It was odd seeing the elegant man sitting primly in John's battered chair. His umbrella was propped by the armrest, though the day was sunny, without a hint of rain. John wondered if the umbrella had a sword encased in the shiny wooden handle. He wouldn't put it above the elder Holmes brother. A sword seemed to fit him better than a gun, anyway. John could almost imagine a younger Sherlock and Mycroft fencing over a trifle.

Sherlock chose that moment to walk in, with his dressing gown flowing loosely around his wiry frame and his violin and bow clutched in either hand.

"Mycroft, should you really be eating that? You're supposed to be on a diet- though, I suppose, with your appetite, it might as well be a cake diet."

"Ah, Sherlock. Good to see you again. Do behave, dear brother. Mummy wouldn't like to hear about your latest antics- prowling the streets at midnight, walking around all day naked-"

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft. Wouldn't want you to choke on your cake now, would I?"

Mycroft calmly put down the small dish, with its slice of cake.

He leaped up and sharply brought down his umbrella-

-only to have it clash against Sherlock's bow, which was much stronger than it looked.

John left the two to their duel, shaking his head.

**My hair!**

An acrid stench was drifting through the flat rather quickly. John took a quick whiff, and coughed, regretting it. It stopped a few minutes later. He could hear a trail of clacking beakers and the soft thump of footsteps leading to the bathroom. Barely a second afterwards, he heard an anguished wail.

John had never heard Sherlock wail.

He burst into the bathroom to see that half of Sherlock's lustrous, curly dark mane was burnt to a crisp.

"MY HAIR! My glorious hair!"

John wheezed, finding this too funny to even laugh properly.

For months afterwards, Sherlock would not leave the flat. He wore a hat on his head, and made John answer the door whenever Lestrade came over to drop off a case.

As soon as his hair grew back, Sherlock went back to normal. They never mentioned the incident again. John intended to use this as blackmail; he had several pictures of the event.

**The unsolvable item.**

Sherlock had been struggling with the Rubik's cube for three weeks now. John had brought it home one night during a dry month- a period where they hardly had any interesting crimes. He thought it would keep Sherlock occupied.

He was right.

Every time he checked on Sherlock's progress, the myriad of colours seemed to grow even more mixed up.

On the twenty-ninth day, he walked in on Sherlock cheating- he was peeling the square stickers off the little boxes and rearranging them.

When Sherlock noticed John's unmanly giggles, he straightened and walked stiffly away.

**Checkmate.**

"Checkmate."

"Checkmate."

"Checkmate."

"Check-"

Sherlock uttered the word for the fourth time that past hour. He kept beating John at chess in under ten moves.

John didn't see how that was possible.

So as the word was spoken again, he roared and flipped the board over, scattering the little white and black pieces.

"Bad day?"

John grunted and stomped off to make tea.

**I love you thiiiiiis much.**

Sherlock had been complaining about a pain in his jaw for the whole day. So John made an appointment for the dentist's. Sherlock grumbled and whined the whole way there, but ceased when they arrived in the sterile little waiting room.

When the detective was called in, John trailed him to the small room. He stifled the urge to poke fun when he saw the way Sherlock paled at the sight of the sharp torture devices.

Then he winced in sympathy as the dentist stated that a tooth needed to be removed.

Sherlock immediately loosened up, taken over by the painkiller.

"John…John, I looooove you…I love you thiiiiiiiis much…"

And he stretched his arms wide, to show John just how much he looooved him.

He accidentally smacked the dentist in the crotch.

**Sapphire sea?**

John was keeping well out of Sherlock's way today. He'd come in that morning, laden with a giant cardboard box filled with small clinking glass containers. The box was sealed shut, but John could guess it held a new set of vials and beakers.

He stayed in his room, wary of bubbling, exploding substances.

That was not the case.

He discovered Sherlock, later that evening, with his toenails painted a deep shade of blue. John picked up the nail polish. _Ah. Sapphire sea._

He quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Experiment."

"Ah, yes. Of course. In that case, would you like me to paint your nails-" he looked at another bottle.

"-_Peachy Keen?"_

**You're my hero!**

Sherlock strode out of the flat, his bright blue cape swirling dramatically around his spandex-clad body, which looked surprisingly fit.

"Are you a superhero, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Now if you will excuse me, I have an evil villain to capture."

A few hours later, the detective bounded back into the flat, neck laden with several medals.

The telly blared the evening news_- this afternoon, a real life superhero was seen stopping this man from-_

John stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back.

Then he leapt away with a naughty wink and a leery grin.


	9. Chapter 9

***I OWN SHERLOCK. EVERYTHING IS MINE.**

****NO, NO- FORGIVE ME- I WAS DELIRIOUS. I OWN NOTHING. NOT EVEN SHERLOCK…**

_I didn't have time to post the chapter yesterday, so here's me with two chapters! yaaaay!_

_Oooh, and there will be kissing, too. JohnLock aplenty! WHOO!_

**Moustaches are manly. I'm a manly man.**

John squinted at Sherlock's jaw. He could see the dark shadow of the beginnings of a beard growing along his chin. Maybe Sherlock forgot to shave. He thought nothing of it.

He was a bit suspicious when, two days later, the man still hadn't shaved.

"Sherlock, are you, um, trying to grow a beard?"

"Wonderful deduction, John. I see your eyes are as good as ever. And no, I'm not _trying_ to grow a beard- I _am_ growing one. It's doing quite well, by the way." Sherlock rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, almost petting it.

A few weeks later, and Sherlock was sporting a slightly thicker layer of hair on his jaw. It had grown out of the itchy phase, and was now in the _silky_ phase. It looked so soft and curly- and surprisingly, it was also lighter than the hair on his head- a dark brown with a tinge of ginger to it- like Mycroft's hair.

John wanted to stroke it.

So one night, when Sherlock fell asleep mid- rant, John had decided to try it. He put down his newspapers with a soft rustle, reached over, and sort of _petted_ it, like Sherlock did that first day.

His pale eyes flashed open, and John could feel his mouth quirk up in that cheeky, knowing smile of his under John's palm.

It drove people crazy, that smirk.

"Ah, so I was right. Hello, John. Goodnight. Off to bed." And Sherlock swooshed out of the room, leaving a stunned John.

It was gone the next day. Sherlock's face looked so empty without that familiar little scruff.

"Morning, John."

"Morning, Sherlock. What happened to your beard? Why'd you shave it off?"

"Bored. Why? Do you want it back? I can do it again if you'd like."

"Ah, no. It's just- does your face get cold? Great big thing of hair over your mouth- probably keeps it warm- would've been useful to let it stay…" John trailed off, feeling rather stupid.

Sherlock just did that annoying little grin again, his eyes crinkling.

**Bored. Bored, bored bored. BORED.**

"Bored."

"Bored."

"Bored."

"Bo-"

"_FOR GOD'S SAKE, SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!"_

Sherlock glanced over at John, sitting across from him in his worn armchair, slightly surprised and a little less bored.

"_Ah._ Bad day at work? Flu season. Must be getting an influx of patients. Someone vomited on you. Ooh, not good. The new shoes. And you asked Sarah on a date. No, not a date- out to lunch during break. She declined. Ooh, _very_ not good."

"Sherlock. Please. Stop it."

"_Ugh._ But I'm bored. I'm _so bored._ I need something to do. I need to analyze things. Have you got cigarettes? Where are my cigarettes? I need my cigarettes. I need it, I need it, I need it…John, give them to me."

"_No,_ Sherlock. We've gone over this dozens of times. No cigarettes for you- we just got you off them, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Sherlock sighs long- sufferingly, and gives John a pitying, patronizing look, as if feeling bad for the grown man who's dribbled tomato soup down his shirt.

John looked at his jumper, feeling self- conscious. Good. No drips.

When he looks back up, Sherlock is putting the last of seven nicotine patches on the pale skin of his right arm.

"Wha- Sherlock! No, Sherlock! Don't do that! That's too much!"

John walks over, and rips six of the patches off, ignoring the hiss of pain.

He decides to do something drastic, to stop Sherlock from harming himself further.

Well, he wanted something to think about.

"You want something to analyze? Analyze this."

John leans over Sherlock, balancing himself with an arm braced on the back of the sofa, and gives him a good, hard snog.

With tongue and everything.

He's feeling rather satisfied as he walks away, and is even happier when he hears the little gasp and heavy breathing from the detective.

Not bored anymore, eh, Sherlock?

…**I hate you, John.**

Sherlock's sleeping, looking angelic with his mouth slightly open and a bit of drool pooling under his right cheek. He's cradling his arm to his chest. It's encased in a large white cast, after breaking it the night before, falling on his arm while chasing after a suspect. Didn't even notice the pain until the adrenaline wore off.

John sniggers to himself as he finishes doodling a series of naughty pictures on the surface of the chunky thing. Serves the idiot right, making him worry.

John was almost asleep in his bedroom when he heard Sherlock's bellow of fury. He hoped the lock on his door would hold.

**How many fingers am I holding up?**

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. It seemed as if he was having some difficulty making out the words on the laptop screen.

He cursed silently.

"John, read this to me."

"Why? The screen is right in front of you."

"Just read it."

John looked over and saw the detective squinting, a slightly pained grimace on his face. Were his eyes hurting him? No, he never had any trouble with the lights. Maybe he wore glasses? Never seen them. Contacts, perhaps?

"Sherlock, do you wear contacts?"

The silence answered his question.

"Oh my god, you do! What- did you lose them? Forgot where you left them?"

He was gleeful at seeing the younger man, usually having the upper hand, now vulnerable and dependent on his blogger.

"Fine, I'll read it myself."

He took a pair of glasses out of his suit jacket, and put them on.

John stared. Sherlock wearing glasses was quite a sight, no pun intended. It made him look even more intelligent than he was, if that was possible. He also looked like a sexy librarian.

Whoa, Sherlock.

**Something's in my eye.**

Sherlock growled, and childishly rubbed at his eye with a curled fist. John pulled the hand down.

"That's not good for you, Sherlock. Don't rub your eye."

"Yes, _mother."_ Said Sherlock, but he made no attempt to raise his arm again.

Instead he blinked. And blinked. And blinked.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"There's something in my eye, John, and it is irritating me to no end-"

He cut himself off as John leaned in close to peer at his face. His finger touched his lower eyelid and it came away with a dark eyelash.

They were frozen, just watching each other, their faces mere breadths away.

"Eyelash,"

breathed John.

"Make a wish."

Sherlock obeyed, his eyes fluttering closed, and blew the bit of gossamer off of John's finger.

He still hadn't moved.

"What did you wish for?"

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"


	10. Chapter 10

***BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH IS ONE SEXY BEAST.**

****TOO BAD I DON'T OWN HIM. OR SHERLOCK.**

_Two chapters in one day! Don't faint from all this excitement! Oh, joy!_

**I've never seen that thing in my life. What is it?**

John winced as a dark blue book fell on his foot. He was shifting a mess of papers, and the thing just had to head for his toes. He peered down at it. The book had fallen open, and the writing inside looked like Sherlock's elegant scrawl. Maybe they were notes on his experiment or something.

_Stupid journal thing, _

_I don't know why people do this. Frankly, it's stupid. You're stupid, and I'm stupid for talking to a book. But I need to get my thoughts on paper, so that I can document them and empty out my mind palace a bit. So Anderson's trying to grow a beard. Don't know why. It makes him look like more of a barbarian than before. What an idiot. I can already feel my IQ dropping at the mere thought of the creature._

John laughed to himself. _Oh, Sherlock. Never change._

_I tried to drug John today. He managed to figure it out when I handed him that cup of tea. Must have remembered that case from a few months ago- The Hound of The Baskervilles- such a sensational title. Speaking of Watson, he's the whole reason I need to empty out the mind palace- he's filling up the whole place, for some odd reason-_

John slammed the book shut, exhaling violently to clear the dust out of his nostrils.

He felt warm, and rather pleased. _He meant that much to Sherlock? _

**There is **_**sand **_**in my unmentionable places, John. **_**Sand.**_

If you took a walk on the beach that one fateful morning, you might wonder at the odd sight of two grown men frolicking in the sand on a gloomy Monday. If you knew who they were, well, maybe not so much.

John and Sherlock were running in circles on the sand. It was actually warm, for once, and their coats were tossed carelessly to the side along with their shoes and socks, shirtsleeves and trouser legs rolled up.

John had dropped a handful of sand down Sherlock's trousers earlier. Sherlock was trying to get him back.

"There is _sand _in my unmentionable places, John! _Sand_!"

John let out a rather unmanly giggle and attempted to escape the stranglehold.

**Soup.**

Sherlock watched John intently as he sipped at his soup.

The doctor ignored him, and concentrated on his food.

"Is it good?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess. "

Sherlock reached over, eased the spoon out of his hand, and took a bit of the soup.

Now John was the one watching as Sherlock put the spoon that was previously in his flatmate's mouth into his own.

**End me now.**

_(you wanted a onesie, you've got a onesie)_

John snorted, and stuffed a fist into his mouth to stop himself from cackling at Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective was wearing a onesie, coloured blue, with the word _sexy_ spelled out in sequins across his buttocks.

He took several pictures of the sleeping man, and locked himself into his room, in case Sherlock tried to strangle him with his shoelaces.

**Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes.**

John didn't know Sherlock's birthday. So he asked him.

"It's tomorrow. Please don't do something stupid, like plan a surprise party or take me out to the _amusement park_. I'd be able to deduct the surprise before you'd even begun to plan it."

John agreed not to do anything. He would, however, give Sherlock something.

Sherlock was ridiculously happy when he got the package of socks, even if it didn't show on his face. They were thick, and soft, and had that pleasant brand new smell. The socks came in little assorted colours, with dancing dragons and pirates.

He wore them that very day.

**I seem to have misplaced my shoes, John.**

Sherlock wiggled his toes. He ran a foot over John's face. Then he poked his big toe into the doctor's ear. Sherlock had sneaked into his room to watch him sleep. He wanted to catch him saying embarrassing things, but there was nothing so far. He got bored. Hence, the face inspection. With feet.

John opened his mouth, and started to snore softly.

A devious grin crept over the detective's face, invisible in the dark.

His foot inched closer and closer to John's lips.

The sudden introduction of Sherlock's toe into his mouth made John wake up with a start. Reacting instinctively, he bit down. Hard.

Sherlock yowled in pain, regretting his decision.

**Don't touch that.**

John watched warily as his flatmate cooed at the thing in his arms.

Sherlock was stroking a little hedgehog, smoothing his finger down its spines. John was feeling a bit nervous(and jealous, but we all know he doesn't want to share Sherlock with anyone.).

A squeal of pain and a soft thump told him his prediction came true.

The hedgehog trundled away, and Sherlock stared longingly after it, idly tugging a spike out of his arm.

**No. **

"No means no, Sherlock. Now go away."

"But- but- I want to touch it."

"Why? Go touch your own. I don't understand your sudden fascination with these, especially mine. Everyone's got one- well, everyone except for Voldemort."

"I don't know who Voldemort is, and I really, really want to squeeze your nose. It's all big and round. It's practically begging to be honked. Please?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't- don't do that. Sherlock…"

"…"

"Alright, fine. Go ahead."

"Heehee. _Honk."_

_**Disgusting.**_

Sherlock pulled a face, and leaned over his plate.

"No. Sherlock, swallow."

He glared at John. An answering glare met his eyes from across the table. He obeyed.

Sherlock picked up his glass of water and gulped it down.

"Blech. Beans. I hate beans. Bad bad beans."

"Beans are good for you, Sherlock. Now eat your apple."

Sherlock viciously bit into the fruit. A speck of juice hit John in the eye.

"Apples are rubbish. I hate apples."

Then Sherlock choked on a chunk of the fruit. John pounded his back, the thing shooting out of his mouth and hitting the wall. Sherlock gulped for air, edging away from the apple.

**I have abs.**

Sherlock curls up beside John, laying his head on his stomach. He can feel the rise and fall of his abdomen as he breathes, and the slow pulsing of blood.

"You're soft, John. Your stomach is quite comfortable."

"Hey! I'm not soft! My stomach is actually very firm! I have muscles!"

Sherlock's lips pull into a smile, the left corner of his mouth rising higher than the right.

He falls asleep to the gentle tug of John's fingers running through his hair.

**Yes, this is mine.**

Sherlock didn't like the looks he and John were getting. So what if people stared at him? He didn't care. But they were looking at John. _His_ John.

Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

So he took the shorter man's hand in his, ignoring the half-hearted _hey_ as John protested weakly. That would show those old ladies that John was his.

But they weren't stopping.

He'd have to do it, then.

Oh well, for the sake of John's innocence.

Sherlock tipped his head down, and pecked John on his lips. He miscalculated a bit, and ended up pressing a chaste kiss onto the bottom lip. But that was okay. At least it didn't land on his ear.


End file.
